


Nearly ten years on

by preux



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/preux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Darklady's work For the KINK! prompt : I'd like to see Bertie and Jeeves get together after 10-20 years of separation.</p><p>War comes to England.  Jeeves and Bertie do their bit, but at what cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nearly ten years on

Neither of us knew how the time had passed so quickly.  We had been all-in-all to each other for more than a decade, and then a call came, taking him away, just for a year.  He was needed to serve the country and it was only a year, after all. We could manage for a year.  The war broke out that year and we were pulled apart, as so many others were, and then we returned to a country in need of help. He deserved my love and support after all he had done for me, and another year or two of public life was little enough. 

I kept a cheerful face for him because it was all I could do. I would walk by the offices where he worked on my way to the House just to catch a glimpse of the back of his brain-filled head and my days would be bearable, but only just.  I visited the Drones, but our meetings were rather staid because so many of our number were fallen or injured.  I won the darts competition, but it was a hollow victory because Freddie had died at Dunkirk and the younger chaps had never had much opportunity for practice.  The scars on my side pulled, but my aim was still true.  Oofy and Chuffy and I dined after attending at the House together with old Bicky when we could.  Chuffy had to sit on the left now, because his ear had been blown off. I went weekly to visit Tuppy Glossop, whose lower legs were still somewhere in Normandy.  Bingo survived two years in a prison camp, but was never quite the same. Oddly, old Motty Pershore turned out to be a good pal, always up for dinner when I was feeling low, not that I let on why I called every few weeks. “You gave me the only days of youthful indulgence of my life, Bertie, and just seeing you brings them back.”

And more time passed. Aunt Agatha was gone and no one tried to marry me off, which was a mercy. My pursuits became more serious, and every once in a while, I would catch sight of him walking outside my flat.  We saw each other, every few weeks for lunch and corresponded superficially through my accountants.  He had made us wealthy men, but very few people knew exactly how wealthy because I had started to live more humbly after the stock market crashes and in these years there was nothing to buy. When he asked how I was bearing up, the relief on his face at my cheerful responses was obvious, but I sometimes saw his gaze straying to my somber ties and the dark circles under my eyes.

We met a few times each year, in France or in Italy.  The visits were joyous and he treasured them, I knew, but it made everything so much harder for me to have him there for those few days and then wake without him again.  I’d wake after those precious hours ended, realize he was gone and collapse sobbing every morning for weeks afterward. But he felt guilty enough, so I kept up a brave face for his sake.

The day he left me at Cannes, I made the mistake of laying down for a nap and caught his scent on the bed linens. He had forgotten his book—one of my old copies of Rex Stout—and when he returned for it, he found me, doubled over in an agony of grief in the bed we had shared, clutching his pillow to my face to muffle the sobs. My frame ached from the force of my sobbing and with the sheer, bally sorrow of letting him go again, and I did not realize he had returned until I felt him frantically running his hands over my body to see where I was hurt.  He took me in his arms and held me until I was able to calm myself enough to speak.  It took a very long time.

“My dear, brave Bertie, I apologize.  I should have realized how you felt.”

“But, Reg, you are so important now.  How could I take that from you?”

He pressed my face against his chest.  “You misunderstand me, beloved darling. Bertie, I have been doing this for you, to make you feel proud of me as a man of honor and to protect you.”

“I was always proud of you, Reg.”

“Bertie, love, when that call came, I asked you to flee with me. You are the most important thing in the world to me, and my first thought was to protect you, but your Code of the Woosters interfered.  You asked me to serve and therefore I have tried to follow your code of honor and put my concerns behind those of the crown, as I know you have. So long as you seemed contented and cheerful, it was bearable, but only just, and I was able to put my longing for you aside.  I admit, I felt needed; there have been things, Bertie, such horrible things… but this I cannot have. I cannot see you suffering like this and not immediately take every action in my power to ease your distress. It is not to be born. Please do not ask me to endure this, I beg of you.”

He phoned the office to delay his return and spent the rest of the day tending to me.  He wanted to leave immediately and never go back, but I convinced him that we needed a sounder plan. It was our first disagreement in so very long that we held each other and cried at the sheer relief of it. We went to Italy the next morning and hid in a pensione while he made financial arrangements and assessed how best to leave his work. It took a week, seven more precious days of waking to his beloved face, drowsing in his arms in the bath, feeling his skin against mine. He would give his notice and come for me. I was careful not to weep until I knew he was well away this time. 

We kept on as usual because nothing could raise suspicions, even an apparent coldness. A few weeks later, someone, Madeline Spode, I think, invited us both to a weekend house party.  He could only stay for the day and much of the time was taken up with necessary politenesses, but we were patient.  I found him in the gardens just after the moon rose.

“Reg.”

“Dearest love.”

We embraced, then sat on a bench and hooked our pinkies. “Will it be soon, Reg?”

“I have a plan, darling. Please stay home in the afternoons.”  We did not kiss.  He knew it would be harder for me if we did.  I watched his car leave the next morning at dawn, glad that I never ate breakfast with the others so I could spend the time composing myself.

I returned to the flat and waited. It took only three more days. I was reading Spinoza when the bell rang.  I ankled over and opened the door and there he was, bag in hand. “We don’t have much time.”

I took the bag from the closet where I had left it, and put the picture of my parents in my pocket. We took the night train to France, in separate compartments, so no one would see us together.  Of course, they’d figure it out, but with luck, we would have a month or two before they did.  We arrived in France at dawn and had breakfast together.  He took my hand and started to explain what he had done, and I touched his hair where it had begun to go grey at the temples.  “Wither thou goest, Reg.  I should have listened to you.”

“No, beloved, you were right and I was completely in the wrong.  I am so proud of you.  I do not deserve the honor of your affectionate regard.”

“Reg, you are the most specific dream rabbit.” He laughed at me and tousled my hair.

We hopped a train and a boat and several other things, including a hay cart, to Italy and hied it for the isolated villa we bought after the stock market crash.  I fell asleep in one of the trains and woke suddenly, afraid to touch him because I had dreamt the moment so many times only to be disappointed. After that, he held me against him whenever I started to doze.

Finally, we entered our country house and dropped the bags, then stood looking at each other.  It had been so long since we were together with the days stretching out before us that neither of us knew what to say. It was too soon to argue about the blue suede loafers I had smuggled into my bag. “Shall we have a bath together?” I asked, looking in dismay at our dusty togs.  He beamed at me and took my hand.

“Of course, darling, but I believe we have skipped an important preliminary.”  And he took me in his arms and kissed me.


End file.
